


ENCHANTÉ

by toastede



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Actors, Angst, Divergent Timelines, Drug Use, Emotional, Foreshadowing, Homophobia, How Do I Tag, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Love Triangles, M/M, Original Character(s), Pining, Plotty, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yearning, dream likes drugs, george doesn't approve, i like poetry but can't write it so i write poetically written stories, kind of, quackity is there for like two seconds, really metaphorical, sapnap is probably the only sane one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28899003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastede/pseuds/toastede
Summary: 1960's ACTING AUMidst struggling with deep-rooted addiction, Dream is requested for the leading role on a prestigious romance film. War merely looms in the background of his eternally lavish legacy, but when hushed words strike memory of a former love, fame appears utterly meaningless.—alternatively, dream being a deadbeat actor through 1965's cruel social norms and george just trying to figure shit out manupdates every wednesday/thursday ^_^
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	1. | PROLOGUE |

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitiful circumstance midst a momentary ballad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooo welcome!! i hope you'll stick around <3 here are some trigger warnings for you just in case
> 
> \- drug use  
> \- implied sexual content  
> \- homophobia  
> 

_—Hollywood, 1965_

An air that hollered elegance and an undertone of grim, mansion unwelcoming for the tasteless with yet underlying senses of excellence.

The ambiance smelled extravagant; gowns of linen in ethereal hover and fitted suits when some styled suspenders. With the hitch of his breath, a rising prodigy in the world of faux would be welcomed with a smile, albeit, envying, and expendable cocktails. The taste of an olive would be the refresher, a reminder of what could've come before him and of what he'd therefore made of it. And so the hitched breath would falter and a grin would succumb.

Opposing end of the room, however, and, deprived of passion and drive, a soul of which had lost its wit. Potential once strived after left to the tombs, a drunken grip and an ever light accent that sourced him unmatched.

And if they could've crossed paths, they didn't, with circumstances far too willing though reasoning polar.

But wasn't that of what ignited them? The circumstantial crisis and the borderline irony?

The prodigy would engage in back-ended talk, few laughs to be shared and, by onlookers' deem, an ever lingering, too-confident smile. He'd indulge in the stares and etch at his best arguments, intent to impress and leave a forever print.

And with the swirl of a cup, the soul would gaze, ringing in his ears and, by his certainly fitting decision, the echoing vinyl running scratchy. He'd convince nobody with a flickering glance that lay fallacies on the curves of patterned curtains but fell further invested on a blinding denture.

He would grimace, sway inference otherwise and disregard his interest with knowledge. And he'd look back at the veils.

A crowd would form among the passionate, infinite inquiries about what they had missed and in awe of how everything they'd sculpted mastered was brought ridiculous and shown in an offbeat spectrum.

And in the center of the ball room, cold as the envious, an ice sculpture. Carved to perfection in untimely manner with drops and edges and soaring peaks. A weeping woman. Transparent under flashing lights with a facade that represented the differing. Greece's comedy and tragedy; antagonistic range only truly achievable by the fittest, with lacing masks while holding realistic psyche.

The salted rim had never once touched his lips, crystal holding golden-like bourbon that swerved and fell with the continuously dainty touch of his fingertips. He'd watch attentively and, with a wry expression, unnoticeably listen to the words shared mere strides onward.

Though with a sorrowed gut he'd lurk, undeserving attention — by lifted standards — prompting every careful move and a desire for the unreachable brewing at its worst.

And he'd hear, through mere intrigue, what the guy in the spotlight had to offer.

"Starring? Oh, dear, that must be exciting!" The voice of the elderly wounded, with judgemental stares and a contrasting, sympathetic glance back.

"Oh, yeah—," He'd affirm. "First leading role, should be interesting."

A moment of silence would then rise, with few daring speak and the evening falling dim.

Harmony turning upbeat, a band would announce their presence and the strumming of blues would lighten the feel, a certain senseless brunet subsequently abandoning the bourbon and forcing his limbs to move for the sake of reputation. Alas, whether it mattered would be unknown, as most eyes lay on the not only dazzling but gifted blond, who, in fact, had managed to capture the stolen glances and make of them what he will.

To say that the freckled was put up to a pedestal would be an understatement, with now skillful actors paying no mind to their upbringing and instead opting on listening keenly to every word he had to say.

With a huff, the brunet chose on distracting, on ignoring what seemed so very far from where he stood and on doing what he could to swallow the dread on his tongue. So figures, retrieving the same very crystal from a table with a white and burgundy bouquet as garnish and tasting the salt on his lips, that he'd be able to accept the stinging facts and go on with his descending career.  
But with a flick of his wrist and the alcohol mercilessly burning his throat in one toxic gulp, the facts only looked to be further prominent.

So he'd lay, sitting on the edge of a carpeted staircase, and decide to write it off. Because he wasn't starring. He wasn't the lead nor was he fit for it. So he could only lament and give it his all to rejoice in the feeble role he was given.

And why even come to this stupid party, anyway? He could've been in a bathtub, soaking in rose petals and drunk off sparkling champagne. But no, he was in a room of entitled people. But he would've been anyway, right? He knew he wouldn't have let himself indulge in the mundane when opportunity brew from beside him.

And George could see right through the blond on the other side of the room. He could see through the glittery smile and the lingering eyes that he, the lead was nothing but a false. As anybody else out there, he held saccharine fervor. He wasn't special, he simply knew what to do in the luckiest of hours, and so there he stood, with an audience of wise and an all-knowing grin.

He could see right through him.

So maybe that's why it was scary. The all-knowing doesn't come in easy when the placeholder resides in one's mind.

After all, George didn't _want_ the protagonist role. He could still make just as much of an impact.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanted to mention that this is mildly inspired by Qekyo's Dear Dream-- it's really not that worth mentioning because they will be entirely different stories but i know how similar they might look at a first glance. so go give them a read!! it's amazingly written and deserves a lot of love <3 just though i should clear that up


	2. | SUPERNOVA |

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glance into Dream and George's teenage years.

_—Florida, 1959_

Dream had eyed the house for a while now. Whether it be with a darting glance, an envious glimmer, or a careless scoff, his daily strolls would always turn to the same corner, the same walkway, the same mailbox. To the dark grey walls that contrasted upon their adjoining and to the customized fence that lay spears upon who dared challenge. He’d always find the letters sent there the most peculiar, the most mysterious. Though, he’d never truly indulge in its macabre particularity. He’d never truly venture, because what’s the point in mystery if it’s uncovered?

So he’d cycle, hours of day wasted by a job he didn’t receive payment for and teenage years he’d never get back withering by fruit of his mother’s greed. And he’d lurk.

He’d lurk, because what else was there to do but lurking? In this putrid town, with these gossiping mouths, what could he do rather? There was nothing good for him there and there never had been. There was nothing good for him when he couldn’t fathom the breath to whisper wishes upon shooting stars.

Though, through deciding of the unknown, Dream didn’t deserve the stars. He’d set himself in the mentality of prevented betrayal, and that was all he knew. Maybe it was the town’s fault. Maybe he’d grown accustomed to thinking on solemn matters because the streets ached agony. Maybe he’d grown to like the burn on his skin and the freckles that had grown from it. Maybe he’d found peace within the mold on cracked pavement and the rocking bridges.

But he’d never truly know what peace entailed, would he? He’d never experience true freedom. _Sincerity._

It was holiday season anyway, there was bound to be good business. His mother gleamed, she exasperated with careful words how she’d never seen anything like it. By quote, letters just _rained_ on the post office— and Dream? Dream just wished his hard work would earn him a free afternoon eventually.

And now, a dilemma fell upon him. One that would challenge his stamina. A decision that would break amends, whether it be with the outside world or himself.

But, amends were only to be broken if the culprit were caught red-handed. And Dream knew more careful.

With a stolen pen clutched on his right hand and eavesdropping on what he specifically shouldn’t, he hoped— _prayed_ , that his mother would forgive him. Though, he had to. He very well knew the policy, he’d recalled it on the back of his mind for years; he could _never_ invade customers’ privacy. He never tested it. He’d sticked to protocol, followed strict regime and been on top of the etiquette. Though, the ink stains were just _begging_ for him to explore, weren’t they? At the very least, he’d convince himself they were. They’d serve as alibi.

Why would a discarded sheet of paper be mixed with such finely printed letters? Why would it hold any meaning?

It sticked out. It brought something so inherently simple and yet, with its normalcy came justification. Dream didn’t have an explanation for what he was about to do. He didn’t _want_ to have one, he simply needed distraction from the ever lingering doom of his future. So with careful hands, he dropped the pen on the pavement.

And there was no stamp. Unlike the other prestigiously wrapped letters beside him, dropped on the street for later worry, this one didn’t seem like it’d belonged. The yellowing sheet had been ripped from what he supposed was an old notebook, graphed lines fading and red ink bleeding through to the other side. There was nothing Dream could’ve done to prevent what he was about to do, and he’d figure this at a later date. Everyone has a breaking point, his just seemed to come in the form of cryptic messages written on scrapped paper.

Maybe it was trash. Perhaps Dream was too focused on the consequences to consider the possibility that, maybe, he wasn’t even doing something wrong. Maybe he’d just been the fortunate to find something peculiar, midday to a city that never silenced. 

And he’d flurry, he’d go through the edges of a mind he didn’t confide in, because the ‘breaking point’ became uninteresting. Because what he had at hand, what was lingering on his fingertips with demanding ache was much more than a violation of imaginative rules he’d set as his course of action. Because Dream, as rigid as his mindset proved him to be, was at his core longing. The path of which took him to where he stood had been nothing but unforgiving. So it was his turn, it was his turn to glitter and burst in the universe that restricted from him the concept of hope.

And there had been a few moments between a glazed pair of eyes and a jittery composure where, even if it were insignificant, he angered. Where he cursed at circumstantial bias and where he looked upon the sky in hopes of finding that one eureka moment everyone seemed to just… Have.

But he didn’t. Because he, oh, he was the universe’s least favorite. For no apparent reason and for no justice.

Perhaps thats why he didn’t notice how his forehead had grown red from the incessant thudding on his knees, perhaps that’s why he had barely registered the blood running down his arm as he mercilessly carved his purpose into stone. Perhaps this _was_ his future.

He didn’t want to think so. He wanted to think he deserved the stars. He wanted to, at the deepest of his doubts, wish upon the fury.

But, he had better matters at hand. Matters such as this letter, anyway.

It hadn’t caught his attention at first. After all, this was his life. He’d go through streets he’d forgotten the name of and find parchments from faraway cities beside the sea. He’d find death, through penmanship that told stories of someone behind the mask of another. 

And he’d wonder, because behind those letters, behind waxed seals and behind those stamps, these words brought the story of someone, somewhere, as told by someone else.

Was purpose merely that? What one sets out to _be_ in life, what a soul is _made_ to do, only for wishing to find success in being sufficiently extraordinary to get their stories jumbled by a legacy they wouldn’t ever know.

Was purpose fleeting?

“For fuck’s sake—,“ Dream muttered. He didn’t have sparing time to be there, let alone think on what would only bring him a trip to the mental hospital and a forewarned headache.

He blinked. Looked at the piece of paper. And so, with quivered sigh and foreign meaning, Dream finally, _completely_ opened the letter, and, and—

…

Oh.

He laughed.

Of course. Of course it had been some rich kid’s crumpled homework. The irony bewildered— No, it _stung_. Dream pressed his eyes closed further and imagined it to be something else. Maybe a forgotten plane ticket, a coupon to get _out of this place_. But he only saw stars.

And when he opened his eyes, all that remained were grammatically incorrect paragraphs and empty corrections.

The emblem of a private high school stamped the top left corner of the page, a poorly written English essay scribbled across the indented lines and red circles encasing misspellings or errors within sentence structure. 

Dream honestly found it quite interesting— The ‘corrections’ only showed blatant idiocy when it came to knowing basic word choice.

The added letters within certain words led the blond to believe whoever the writer was had been from someplace in Europe. He wondered if there had been a story behind it, maybe the person hadn’t yet accustomed to the American spelling. Or, maybe they just did it to spite whoever was underpaid to check them.

Dream blindly reached to his back pocket, a small notebook finding its way to his hands and then to his lap, alongside the dramatized essay. He ripped a page out of his diary and began writing.

‘ _Hello,_ ’

 _Too formal, you’re trying to help here_ — Dream shook his head and crossed it out. 

‘ _ ~~Hello,~~_

Hey,’

Dream chuckled nervously at his shaky hands, but kept going.

‘ _Thought I should help out._ ’

Chewed on his bottom lip.

‘ _Most words that have a ‘ou’ in them for you probably will just be an ‘o’ for us. Stupid, I know, but they’ll give you shit for it. Don’t argue your way out of it, they’ll just go on a whole monologue about American pride or some shit like that._ ’

Dream was stumped. Why was it so hard to write to a total stranger? They wouldn’t even know who he was.

He crossed out all the ‘shit’s. Maybe the person was more mature than he intended.

‘ _Sorry if you see the profanities._ ’

Profanities? Was he trying to sound professional? _Clearly not working_ , he sourced as an afterthought.

‘ _Don’t know if you’re fine with swearing._ ’

Boy, would this be awkward. Maybe he should just not sign? 

‘ _Like, for example, labour - > labor. You know?_’

He sighed.

‘ _Anyway, I’m running out of space. Write back if you want any help, I’m kind of an English freak._ ’

_What am I saying? Oh my god._

‘ _Don’t stamp the letter or anything. So I know it’s from you._ ’

 _That sounds way too intrusive. Does that sound intrusive?_ Dream groaned in annoyance.

Now he _has_ to sign. It’d just be awkward to leave it like that.

He looked down to the plethora of letters in his duffel bag, then back at the house. It seemed so very far now, with the sky dimming and the spears on the fence blending in with the dark.

‘ _Yours,_ ’

 _Absolutely not._

‘ _ ~~Yours,~~ _’__

__He looked up at the stars, wondering if he’d live to see the day when they would go, also._ _

“ _Huh._ ” Dream breathed in acknowledgement, thinking he definitely didn’t want to deserve the stars now.

__Because the stars were far away. And the stars, they would eventually explode,_ _

...

—but so would him.

_‘—faraway’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yuhhhhhhhh whats popping ao3


	3. | ONCE UPON A TIME |

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, they meet at a different place, in a different time.

-

Faraway,

I don’t know if you’ll receive this or anything. I don’t know if I want you to, either, considering you’re a complete stranger, but I guess I just wanted to say thank you? I don’t know how you got to my essay— You get the point. I don’t know a lot of things.

Your advice actually really helped me out! Don’t know if I could’ve listened to any other word that lady had to say.

I reckon you told me to write back if I needed anything? Realizing now it’s stupid to ask, I should probably just check the letter again. By the way, smart labeling it as school work. My parents didn’t bother with it.

I guess I’m just wondering who you are. Might be dangerous writing to someone I don’t know. Specially with what’s going on in the world right now.

I didn’t stamp the letter like you told me to. I’ll leave this out at 6:50— Mail gets collected by seven and it’s usually sent out in the morning— But I guess you’d know that, right?

Anyway, thanks.  
George : )

-

  
_—A venue north of Melrose Avenue (a rather spectacular Weeping Willow on its front), 1965_

“George! It’s so good to see you,” Hibiscus cologne skipped in the air, hitting George’s nostrils as a warm though quick embrace enveloped him with welcome. “I believe we haven’t still met— Rita. Rita Collins.”

George grinned, a genuine flare of life sparking up in his otherwise dimmed headspace. “Yes, we haven’t, actually.” He stuttered before bringing as proper of an introduction he could manage; “George, though I guess you know that.”

“Of course I do.” Rita smiled as though she’d known the brunet for centuries, flats clacking against flooring as she moved to rearrange a heavy video camera to fit her liking. “Sage has mentioned quite the deal about you. She’s the reason we cast you in the first place.”

She eyed the light haired woman to her left, urging her on to join the conversation. George’s eyes followed, falling downward to unmistakably notice a deep green wheel chair upon which sat a freckled face and a pair of Mary Janes. 

“Oh, Ree, you and your formalities.” Sage rolled her eyes dismissively, but laughter lines were forever printed onto her cheeks. And before George could have a hidden battle with himself, onwards came another introduction. “Sage Lawrence.” She extended her arm out, George shaking it with pride. 

If there were to be a definition of ‘perfect duo’, George thinks this would be it. Two wise women in their forties holding a history of unbroken friendship and a mutual love for filmmaking.

“I’ve heard a lot about you— Both of you, actually,” 

“Darlin’, since _Allegro_ took off our names have been poppin’ up everywhere,” Rita huffed, wrapping her red hair in a bun. “we even got to cast Stasia Wallace! Can you believe that?”

“Anastasia Wallace?” George needed a breather, some alcohol, and maybe then he’d believe those words before dropping dead. “Anastasia Wallace is on the _cast?_ ”

“Haven’t you heard?” A new voice rose from behind him, this time holding a prominent French accent and a startled undertone. “She’s playing Pamela Holloway.”

“Moe!” Rita’s eyes immediately reached behind George, his gaze slowly following behind. “It’s been so long.”

“ _Too long_ ,” Moe added, hazel eyes contrasting with dark brown hair. Rita hugged her (for longer than she did George, he noticed) before she turned to him with a bright look in her eye. “Enchanté, Monique LeBeau.”

“George Davidson,” He noted, suddenly taken aback by the fact that it was _finally_ happening. He was finally there, on set, with people he didn’t know but had looked up to and a dumbfounded laugh evermore stuck on his throat.

Sage offered Monique a quick greeting before she settled into directing assistants and prop managers. The set wouldn’t be used today, but preparation was anything but lacking.

George finally took a few moments to look around him, to take in the wired machines and the whirring of fans and the rolling of cameras. It was all just as he imagined it to be, even if a few moments prior he wondered if he’d ever finish filling out those eternal forms.

And Anastasia Wallace was coming. He was working alongside Anastasia Wallace, one of the if not the most sought after professional in his field. He’d have a million questions to ask her. A million things to say.

But that’d be for later. Right now, he could crack it up with Monique LeBeau. It was still Monique LebBeau, after all—

“It’s wonderful to meet you, George, but I have contracts to sign.” She smiled, and George noted the beautifully crafted pen of which later took hold in her slender grip. “The others should be here soon, though. Don’t be scared, they won’t bite.”

And just like that, she was gone. It was only George and his bags and the faces of directors he’d learn to work with for months forward.

And so he wondered, “Who else is cast?”

“You don’t know?” Rita breathed out, clearly in exhaust of running around all morning. Upon the shake of his head, she handed him what he supposed was a script.

‘ENCHANTÉ  
Written by Sage Lawrence

Draft #32’

He turned the page.

‘MAIN CAST

 _Pamela Holloway_ , as played by Anastasia Wallace  
_Casper Moreau_ , Dream  
_Delphine Dubois_ , Monique LeBeau  
_Phillip Holloway_ , George Davidson  
_Edward Holloway_ , Watson Pierce’

“Who’s,” He double checked the inked writing, looking back at the director. “Dream?”

Rita rolled her eyes. “Stubborn as steel, that one,” She backtracked. “a real sweetheart once his pride wears off, though.”

George parted his lips, but had nothing to say.

“Oh, my bad.” Rita waved her hand dismissively. “I’m sure you’ve seen him before. Tall blond, shiny teeth, pretty face. Was surrounded at the ball earlier this month.”

His brain spiraled and twisted, finally landing back on the envy and surrender he’d encompassed that very afternoon. “Is he a newcomer?”

“Far from it,” An assistant handed Rita a sheet of paper, briefly explaining its contents. “based in Florida, I worked with him a few years back.” She bobbed her head so glasses that sat upon her hair would fall to the bridge of her nose. “Sage ’n I had to nag forever to get him on here,” And with a pen that was afore nestled behind her ear, she quickly signed. “shouldn’t take long to warm up to him. Y’know, if you ignore the fact that it’s _Dream_.”

For George, there was no evidence lacing through Rita’s words. It was tough to believe that someone who looked to be as snobby as ‘Dream’ could be pleasant to be around, specially given his supposed hesitation on working alongside them. A low resting leather backpack held onto his back, hands rising to fix the straps absentmindedly.

“And don’t look now, but he’s staring.” Came a whisper of continuation.

George’s head immediately turned backward, disregarding of what Rita had to say.

The same face he’d brought etched to his brain stood just few feet before him, though it was a one-sided glance. The blond seemed to reposition his watch, a cream colored dress shirt and dark pants intimidating George’s very core.

And behind him entered a face the brunet was yet hesitant to see. Anastasia Wallace. Right there. In front of his very eyes and wearing a white and grey plaid dress that remarked her hour glass figure.

Sunlight peeked in, just enough to blow out the background before them and quite literally give the pair a heavenly glow. Though if you were to ask George, he’d never admit that.

Anastasia was quick to flash a polished smile, being the first to approach them. Monique had returned from whatever contracts she had to fill (way quicker than George did, he scolded himself) and stood just before him.

“It’s so nice to be here! Hollywood hasn’t seen me in a while.” She laughed nervously. “Oh, oh! Of course, sorry. Anastasia Wallace; call me Stasia.”

Rita was first to dare. “It’s an honor, sweetheart. Rita.” She shook Stasia’s hand, and George wondered if she’d even have the courage to hug Anastasia Wallace.

Monique gave her a simple smile, and suddenly, as if all the gods decided to bring their fury upon him, it was George’s turn.

“I’m George.”

“George...?”

“Davidson, George Davidson.”

And then—

She smiled brightly, because what was George thinking? It was Anastasia Wallace. “Of course, forgive me. A nine hour flight really does things to you.”

 _Interesting_ , he’d never take her for caramel scented perfume.

“I have a friend up in Vermont,” She mentioned. “he said he met a George in New York. A gala, of sorts, I can’t remember.” She put knuckles to her forehead. “Alex ring a bell?”

So George browsed through the infinite files of his mind, because it was Anastasia Wallace and he couldn’t afford to disappoint her. His time in New York had been short of a complete daze, composed of liquor filled evenings and rocking sky scrapers.

“The bartender, right? Quackity?” She nodded. “Yeah, he taught me how to make some …interesting drinks.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She rolled her eyes, “Anyway, I should probably go do the legal stuff. I’ll catch you later, though?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s an honor meeting you.”

“Honor’s mine.” 

So George had to calm down for a second, because this was truly it. He was starring in a movie next to Anastasia Wallace. The absolute genius herself.

But, of course, he’d forgotten what also came with the package.

He could _feel_ the aura shifting as Dream walked forward. He could sense the stress on his shoulders and the absolute toll it’d take on the energy of the group. He could predict his future working with this man, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Uh, I’m looking for Rita?” Dream had his hair dropping atop his forehead. _Probably to hide the stress marks from being so uptight_ , George’s mind wandered.

Realistically, there was no reason to resent Dream. But George had a feeling. And he, of course, is a man who trusts his intuition.

Rita clicked her tongue. “Ah, Dream, forever petty. Why don’t you introduce yourself to your cast mates?” Yes, but George couldn’t tell if she meant to scold him or not, because mere moments later she was patting his cheek with adoration in her eye. “Sage!” Rita raised her voice. “Dream’s here.”

Sage approached them mere seconds later, and now that George got a better angle, he could see painted metal plates behind the wheels.

“Dream, are you gonna say hi or will I have to make you?” She warned, a not-so-serious expression on her face.

“Sage,” He greeted, and George almost thought the blond was too good at acting, because not a sliver of a smile dropped upon his face. “We have tonight to introduce ourselves, I just wanna get this formal shit over with.”

Rita’s face dropped, her cheery personality falling behind. “You’re serious? Everyone knows each other.”

“Tonight,” He repeated, and George thinks he couldn’t have wished for any worse.

-

For the record, George didn’t plan on this. He supposed he’d just go home, get a quick laugh about it with his roommate and maybe eat an apple or two before heading out to meet the people he’d be stuck with for times forward. 

But now, standing with an awkward grin on his face and stabbing through a maraschino cherry with hope for glory, he wanted no more than to know this was enough.

“Really? Alex taught you this?” Anastasia cackled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. “You probably do it better than him,”

“What’s it called, anyway?” And George flinched, because that was the first time he’d heard _that_ voice in a while.

Anastasia’s jaw dropped. “Have you been living under a rock?”

“Orlando, actually—”

“Same thing,” Sage tutted. “The Manhattan. No wonder you learnt it in NYC.”

“It’s actually good.” Monique smiled, so George hoped she’d grasp his silent thank you. “I’ve never had rye like that.”

Then, George brewed up the last cocktail. And placing it down on the table before him, he knew who’d take it.

Dream bit the cherry off first, a choice of which George questioned but disregarded. If he were a braver man, maybe he’d see the day when he’d bother Dream about it.

But the blond, after nearly dropping the entire glass on himself, (a mishap that Anastasia promptly scolded him for, because that’s certainly not how you hold a cocktail glass), gave a pleasant hum and rested his chin on his palm. 

“You’re right,” He glanced Monique’s way. “It’s good.” 

And George thanked the heavens, because one more humiliating exchange and he’d surely break contracts to flee the scene.

“See,” Anastasia patted him on the back. “that wasn’t so hard.”

“I can be nice when I need to be,” Dream joked, but George wasn’t so sure he was being sarcastic.

As the night progressed, George could understand why this was Rita Collins tradition. A successful director like her surely had ways of coaxing her crew to like each other, whether it be their intention or not.

Alcohol and cigarettes made first impressions easier. Under the influence, none of them felt embarrassed to communicate their heart’s desires.

Of course, after George’s fancy show-off they’d only resorted to stinging whiskey, but the results were all the same.

And that night, if George remembered how the conversation had gone through his ride home, he would’ve questioned why Anastasia Wallace wasn’t mentioned through his brain’s purest words.

-


	4. | ANASTASIA WALLACE |

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A closer look on our characters.

-

George, 

It’s pointless knowing who I am. If anyone were to find these letters, it would get out of hand. We’re lucky no one has. 

Everything’s so mundane here; a slight change in scenery and people in this town will chatter ’til dawn’s wreck.

The day I wrote to you, it wasn’t really on purpose. I barely even remember it now. 

I almost _didn’t_ open your essay (I thought it’d be a massive invasion of privacy). When I saw it, though, I knew I saw an opportunity to shift my infinite boredom. I just had to do something, you know? Gravitated towards it. ~~Towards you~~.

It’s nighttime as I’m writing this. I’m very fucking tired, so please, excuse my drowsy thoughts.

I hope to hear back from you (school-wise or not).

_—faraway_

-

_— A masonry venue early to autumn’s day (A yellowing Weeping Willow on its front), 1965_

Anastasia Wallace wears corsets. It really shouldn’t come as such a surprise to George, considering most women did, but on the second day of contract, with a mind exhausted of his roommate’s fruitless advice, seeing Anastasia Wallace’s paper-thin waist be measured with a laced corset atop it, he didn’t feel so out of place anymore.

Sage had welcomed him with the quirk of a brow, promptly passing script on and, with hushed words mentioning he wouldn’t play Phillip Holloway that day. George brushed it off with a shrug, though she didn’t seem to care for his judgement.

A gold-rimmed, opalescent teacup contrasted against simmering black coffee (George had never been one for creamer), and with a stinging sip that left lingering bitterness on his tongue, Hollywood had woken up.

There are things, George noted, that one has to dwell deep into consciousness to settle. This wouldn’t have been the first time an attention to detail drove him to surfeit thoughts, but with seemingly infinite time to drag his feet along the walnut flooring, he deemed it a favorable trait.

He’d notice, for example, how Anastasia’s resting expression fell for fractions of a second whenever an assistant would lose grip on the buttons on her back. He’d guiltily wonder how her ribs hadn’t snapped just yet as the fit of lace drew nearer and nearer closing.

But, as any productive member of society, he’d shake his head and land his gaze on less threatening visuals, such as the withering cosmos Sage had knotted to the wires of her wheel chair. They’d probably bloomed last summer, though he wouldn’t specifically know. 

Rita had chosen to wrap her ginger hair in contrasting green silk, and his mind fell wary on the nature of recognizing colors even though he couldn’t inherently see them.

 _That would probably be a good metaphor for someone_ , George thinks, but it wouldn’t be his place to ponder upon it.

He hadn’t properly noticed Dream’s presence, his brain catching up with his actions only when he’d seen a makeup artist holding blond hair out of the way and pressing foundation onto freckled skin. A turn of Dream’s neck and with differing lighting George saw the ugly scar that ran through the left side of his cast mate’s forehead, (a prominent symbol of why he’d let his hair grow longer), and, with a hitch of his breath, the brunet suddenly felt embarrassed to judge Dream about it prior.

His observations were short-lived, though, as he’d barely ran a thought when Anastasia took the seat beside him, forming small talk he wouldn’t answer and mindlessly reminding herself of errands through whispers only she would hear. And then, as quickly as his endeavors began, George was shaking himself back onto reality.

“Sorry, were you talking to me?” He prompted softly, and immediately cursed himself, because that is not how you talk to Anastasia Wallace.

Though she smiled sincerely, crossed one leg over the other, and replied, “Yeah, everyone else is busy. I can leave you alone if you want, though.”

“No, no, it’s alright. I was just zoned out.”

Anastasia saved him of the trouble. “Did you see what’s being filmed today?”

“Not really, I haven’t had a chance to read anything.” _Or_ , George thought, _you just spent the whole morning dreading it_.

“Yeah,” She leaned back on the couch. “Rita’s giving an introduction to the film once Monique arrives.”

George could now notice a slight Jersey accent between her vowels, and so he wondered, for the first time, where Anastasia Wallace truly came from. “Where did you fly from?”

Anastasia drummed her fingers, as if she were deep in thought, but then quickly answered, “I moved to New York a couple of years ago. I wanted to experience Broadway first hand, you know? Just here for filming.”

George briefly remembered her mentioning a nine hour flight, but decided to look past it. “Is it nice there?”

Anastasia held a blank expression, blurred midst of confusion, “What?”

“New York.” He clarified, meaning _not_ to sound rude but wondering if he did, anyway.

“Oh.” She paused, but George noticed the twitch of her hand. “Yeah,” Anastasia cleared her throat, masking strange behavior with an afterthought giggle. “yeah, it’s alright. Urban as it gets.”

George blinked. He almost believed he’d witnessed Anastasia Wallace short-circuit.

But then, of course, he took spite in how flawlessly she’d changed the subject. “My family’s Greek, though, I’ve been acting ever since I was a kid. Always loved it.”

And though her words were short of dripping honesty, George narrowed his eyes.

“There’s this rumor that runs in the family, of how our ancestors were supposedly the first to popularize theatre, and how it’s this ever looming ‘legacy’ that I was born to fulfill,” She held a dramatized tone. “I don’t believe any of it, though.”

 _These are things media doesn’t tell you_ , George thinks, then physically shakes himself of an over-analyzing daze and spits his thoughts out like word vomit. “I think it’s an interesting thing to think about, though. Consider the possibility.”

Anastasia clicked her tongue. “Here, this is some advice someone gave me a long time ago. Haven’t forgotten it since.” She began, “Destiny was made solely for the lucky. Whether it exists or not will forever be a two-sided argument, but the smarter would figure the best way of guaranteeing success is chasing it out oneself.”

…

“In other words, bite destiny’s ass before it does you.” Anastasia tapped her head twice with a sarcastic raise of her brows, immediately breaking into chuckles as George fell entranced to her words. 

“Anyway, I need to get properly dressed.” She glanced down to the robe that tied around her waist, George simply nodding in acknowledgement. “It was nice talking to you.”

George didn’t have a chance to return the compliment before Anastasia was quarreling down the set and finding her changing room.

Recalling the conversation, George felt the utter need to get behind her skin. To dive through the depths of such a star’s mind and find what exactly made her act as she did. What makes those short lapses of judgement and what makes her lips quiver with disgust when no one’s looking.

And so, he remembered a time when someone had asked him to compare objects to people, and inevitably, a gruesome thought fell onto his conscience.

Anastasia Wallace would be a beautifully carved casket. Charmingly intricate and gleaming with polish, though knowing of a rotting corpse that lay inside.

-

“Enchanté’s beyond just a love story. It’s a lesson, an experience.” Rita had began, a prideful smile craning behind her teeth as she spared a look at Sage. “For the spectator _and_ the characters.”

“And you,” Sage joined in, “if you let it.”

George’s mind traced back to the lectures held through his eternal years of readying for this very moment, though he’d never gone through one quite like this one.

And with a quick glance around the room, he landed on the conclusion that maybe these ‘incredibly talented actors’ hadn’t, either.

“We’ll go through the story of _Pamela Holloway_ , a struggling ballerina,” Rita side-eyed Anastasia, then landing her gaze on Dream. “and _Casper Moreau_ , a waiter for his wealthy father’s hotel. It won’t be a journey of perfect romance. Our protagonists aren’t soulmates, they weren’t born with each other’s names carved to the backs of their skull or with a lingering quest to find each other through angry red flames.” 

“But,” She completed, “They’re two people who, though not meant to have a happily ever after, lead each other through something much bigger than both of them. They’re two drifting souls who ground each other through decisions that will never drift. That’ll haunt them for as long as they both shall live.”

An undisclosed tension drifted through the room.

Rita smiled. “I want this to be more than a gig for you guys. I want you to leave set on the last day we’re together and confidently say that Rita Collins has changed your life.” She exclaimed dramatically, a joking tone beneath her words. “That’s my goal, after all. Success just happened to come beside it.”

“And if you can’t say that, well, just remember Rita has you all on a contract.” Sage then jokingly warned, Rita shaking her head disapprovingly. “Before she gets all poetic, I’ll give you some technical info. We have good amount of events planned for the future. Apart from filming, of course, which will run until late December, if everything goes according to plan.” She paused, sighing audibly.

“We’ve organized a fundraiser in a few weeks, but I’ll give you more information on that later, since I don’t have it. If you’ve gone to one before, though it shouldn’t be much different from that. I suspect it’ll happen—,” Sage looked up to Rita, who simply gave her a nod. “mid November? We haven’t set a date yet, since our special guest has a busy schedule.”

“As for the release date of the actual film, Rita and I agreed it has to release a few months into next year. Business runs better toward summer, so we wouldn’t be surprised if it airs late as June. But, you don’t need to understand the logistics of it for now. Acting would be enough.”

George’s mind, of course, jumbled to successions of possible scenarios and imaginative action. He’d never been part of a movie this anticipated, so he could only wonder how many people would attend the events hosted by representatives, specially judging by the vast amount of investors Rita had already accumulated, coming from their last film and all the way to a recent speech she’d given on the roots of filmmaking.

He remembered, momentarily, how just a couple months prior he’d watched the face of the woman before him through black and white filter and had all the same been dazzled by her genius. And he felt proud to be in the same room as her, as all of them.

“I don’t like giving away entire movies, specially when they have such a brusque meaning behind them. You’ll learn as you go, and through your characters’ progressing journeys you’ll find new ways to carry out their psych.” Rita had continued somewhere along the line, though George wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the exact moment she began talking.

“You’re movie stars, people. So act like it, literally.” Her small quip brought a chuckle out of some on set, (not including George , who’s mind had been still wondering on the ethics of reason).

-

“Cut!” Rita exasperated for the umpteenth time, an encouraging smile finally faltering from her face. Immediately, background extras halted and nearly everyone on set returned to their original spots.

And, George was having quite the blast watching from the sidelines.

“Imbéciles,” Monique perked from beside him (between yet another handful of berries), George having at the very least a minimal idea of what she was working up to. “How many times will they miss the script?”

And although George knew she’d talked mostly to herself, he couldn’t help but join in. “It’s getting sad.”

Monique hummed a mix of second-hand embarrassment and pity, her lips tinted purple. “They’re making me stress eat.”

Maybe it was due to the fact that they’d sat there for a ridiculous two hours overtime, but George had found himself looking into what exactly had been throwing momentum off.

He’d commented to Monique how Dream’s act immediately fell when he had to reply to Anastasia’s dialogue sequence, and how Anastasia didn’t do much to help it, either, as she pulled a frown the second she’d tell it wasn’t going to work, _again_.

It was humorous for the first few times, but now that they’d watched these poor, poor extras realign their choreography and redo it near hundred times, the situation was one of worry.

“Dream’s out of it,” Stasia had mentioned. “I can barely look at him without feeling the energy drain from me.”

Dream ignored her (though knowing it was true, as everyone else did), drawing the black laced mask he previously had over his eyes to rest on blond hair. “Well, aren’t you _supposed_ to be tired for this scene?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, Dream, but we’re still _supposed_ to be at a masquerade ball, not a funeral.”

“Enough,” Sage scolded, a stressed look on her face. “Dream, try and liven it up, will you? Stasia, you’re just discouraging him further. Follow along, even _if_ you think the energy’s down.”

George heard a stifled chuckle from beside him, still hidden through the copious amounts of fruit Monique had been stuffing down her throat. 

And right then, he decided Monique LeBeau was one of the good ones.

“Okay, can you give me some of that? It seems to be working for you.” He breathed out midst his own laugh.

“It’s not,” She remarked bluntly, shoving the porcelain bowl onto George’s lap (which, for the record, only fueled the ridiculousness of the situation).

And George smiled, because maybe not being a main character meant he could make fun of them, which he, being the sadistic fucker he is, enjoyed all the same.

So naturally, after a particularly loud encounter between Dream and Sage, he shielded his vision with the palm of his right hand. “Monique, I can’t look at this anymore.”

“I should’ve stayed in France,” Monique began, and repeated, because apparently she’d decided _now_ was a good time to question her life choices.

They’d been trying to film an introductory scene, for god’s sake. The first meeting of Casper and Pamela. And though Dream had been hopelessly attempting to interpret a waiter, his demeanor might as well have told the audience he was conspiring to rob the place.

“I was about to complain that we weren’t gonna film today, but now I’m wondering if I wanna be part of this movie at all.”

George laughed.

It was an unnecessary conversation. Both of them knew that, of course, but it didn’t take away from the fact that the scene before them was so miserably painful to watch that nothing they said would matter.

George completed, “Do you think it’s too late to tear the contract?” 

And so, Monique bit her bottom lip to contain a smile, “I think it’s too late for anything, at this point.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> opalescent teacups are a real thing people used (look it up) they're dazzling


	5. | DO YOU FEAR THE UNKNOWN? |

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delve into melancholy.

  
-

Faraway,

You do a shit job at crossing things out. Or maybe it’s because I’ve looked at the ink for too long. I couldn’t guess. 

I wasn’t expecting to hear back from you, honestly. Not that I didn’t want to, it’s just strange, I guess. New.

Everything’s so dull. I’m trying to convince my parents that going back to London would be best for us. Mum says I should settle.

How old are you? If you’re old enough, get out.

But hey, why seek solidarity in things so crepuscule? Follow your own path, find your drive. Work with what you got, you know?

(Yes, I have been playing more attention in English class.)  
George : )

-

_— A dimly lit venue (A Weeping Willow casting moonlight shadows on its front), 1965_

The scene was fine. It was fine. It concluded on neither a good or bad note, just a very, very exhausted one. Later than expected, but it was something George could handle. 

Monique had excused herself, distracting in something George didn’t pry in and promptly asking him a favor. And George would’ve covered for her, really, but Rita didn’t ask. She seemed done as one could be, and who would blame her? George’s headache was fuming and he didn’t even have to do the talking.

A masquerade ball. A masquerade ball where Casper met Pamela and where first impressions would lead way to a yet untold love story. A masquerade ball where Pamela would sorrow in her misses and Casper would bring a light hearted chat. One where the dancing extras behind them set metaphors only for the vigilant. 

It hadn’t been too complicated of a task, but there was a strange lurk in the way the scene brought itself. There was a strange air.

But, George let it go. He let go of the fact that he focused more on realism than the act and let go of the fact that he’d already theorized on the reason behind _nothing_ working out at the current moment. Because there was always another day. Another scene. There was always time to unwind and restart.

So, that’s what he did. Next afternoon came around, and with a silent drive he’d ever be grateful for, George breathed in and let himself begin again. Maybe yesterday hadn’t been enough. Maybe there was something missing.

First thing he saw, Monique LeBeau. Hair styled up in an intricate swirl and holding a thin cigarette to her peach-painted lips. Tobacco wasn’t exactly recommended before putting an act on, but they made a silent promise to let it go.

He’d barely spared a look at her before the clock turned seven o’clock, and off to shoot they were. And maybe George had arrived late, because he didn’t have time to set his gaze on corsets or scars this time.

So he sat, and stared, and yearned, because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Rita merely threw him an acknowledging glance and, before he knew it, “Action!”

He made an effort to drown in the actual storyline this time, to focus on things other than how Dream looked as, if not more exhausted than the previous day. How Anastasia would roll her eyes and sigh when a mistake was made, even if it was her own. How Monique tried to aid, but fell more helpless than he’d seen the night prior.

Not just another day, then. Perhaps he’d give it a week. After all, they needed to get comfortable.

It was ironic, really. They’d mixed the most talented of people, given them a carefully crafted script, the best circumstances— And yet, there wasn’t much to work with when the time came.

George watched as Rita took the scene to a halt, calling the cast out to her. Sage pulled Dream aside, away from the rest, and gave him stern looks and even harsher words. Rita seemed calmer, though she also clearly didn’t want to risk losing the timeline for shooting because of some petty feud.

There wasn’t much to do, from George’s side of the set. His scenes wouldn’t come for a few days forward. And when Monique LeBeau sat beside him, he was expecting her to talk about how it was much worse to act than stare.

“What are you doing?” A french accent came his way.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring like a lost puppy.”

“Oh,” George cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

“It’s hard, huh?”

He shot her a questioning glare.

“I didn’t want this either, at first. To be some side character people wouldn’t care much about. I had another casting call I almost took, I would’ve starred.”

George blinked, “Why not take it?”

“Experience is better than privilege, George.” Her breath smelled faintly of cigarettes. “You’ve lost yourself.”

George tried to speak, but none of his words would come fitting. He didn’t think Monique would be a philosophical person, specially after his few interactions with her, but he also didn’t expect her to read through to him.

“Try to take this as it goes. I can see what you’re doing. Psychoanalyzing won’t get you anywhere.”

…

He didn’t hear (or see) Monique leaving.

George thought of her words, he really did. He ran them through over and over for as long as he could, and he came to the conclusion that LeBeau was, ironically, not herself for the time being. A harboring thought, of course, in comparison to the realization that he didn’t want to take her words in any longer. So maybe they had truth lacing between them.

There were so many people, so many things, so many stories, and George was midst every one of them. If he asked questions, everyone before him would give differing answers, and maybe that was the magic of wondering.

But he didn’t have all day to blow his own mind , so the scene began again. 

“You dance?” Dream (or was it Casper?) asked, an unidentifiable expression on his face.

“You saw that?” Anastasia countered.

“It’s my father’s hotel you’re performing at, Pamela.”

“Of course.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Dream paused, “Consider it fate,” 

_Destiny was made solely fo—_

“You’re a bold one, Moreau.” Anastasia smiled. 

“You’re good at it, you know?” Dream halted, pretending to write something down. “Ballet.”

She waved him off, “I do it for the money.”

“Really?” The blond asked, dubious. “Didn’t look like it.”

“Really.” She reiterated. “My father will only let me go so far.”

“You’re more than you set out to be, Pamela,” He caught her gaze. “be more confident in yourself. Appear as your worth.”

Anastasia furrowed her brows. “Says the waiter.”

“I’m serious.” Dream lingered in a way that shushed the entire cast. “You shouldn’t settle for something less.”

There was a silent pause. George wondered if it’d later be filled with melancholic harmony.

“Cut!” Rita exclaimed, a more genuine smile on her lips. If George focused, he could see one on the corners of Sage’s, too. “Now that’s how it should’ve went,” 

And he noticed. He noticed Dream’s newfound devotion to his character, the passion he put into his words. He even admired it for a small amount of time, or, until Dream walked away from the talk Rita would’ve given, and into the changing rooms.

“Dream, see Sage after, yeah?” She rose her voice to catch him, Dream giving no reaction.

-

The food was good. Better than any other set’s he’d been to, anyway. There was a whole buffet sprawled out for them, even if George inherently did nothing that day. He didn’t know if Dream actually talked to Sage before leaving.

He’d been drumming his fingers on floral tablecloth absentmindedly when Rita approached. She sat in front of him, George only noticing her existence when he’d smelled the hibiscus. And so, he turned his gaze up.

“Tiring, huh?”

George laughed, weakly, “I haven’t done anything.”

Rita gave him a comforting smile, despite the backhanded comment. “You know, George, it’s important to observe— To capture the essence of a piece one’s working on. You have to immerse in the universe to then act as if it’s your own.” She paused. “Even if that means sittin’ by the side or coming in when you don’t necessarily have to.”

George curled his hand into a fist, letting it rest on the table. He knew he should’ve been paying attention to the film. To the characters. Prepared himself for the time he would have to walk in there and act like he’d been acquainted to these people for his entire life. But it wasn’t that simple.

He didn’t think of Anastasia as Pamela Holloway. He thought of her as the actress bringing these scenes out and speaking on words she’d solely memorized.

He thought of Dream, and how something must’ve clicked inside of him for the sudden burst of motivation he’d gotten. To act, to pretend.

“I know, Rita.” He gave her his best smile. “I’m just feeling weird today.” 

“You are?”

“I don’t really know anyone. And then Dream just leaves like that—“

“Oh, sweetie, I’ve worked with him before. I know how Dream acts. He exhausts easily. He’ll leave whenever he wants to, it’s a counter to his skill.”

George blinked.

“Everyone has one, George. Stasia gets impatient, Monique goes quiet—… I’ll notice yours, too, it’s part of the job. I have to be here to balance it.”

It was true. Dream had no goodbyes to spare, he changed into a cream colored dress shirt and left like no one would notice him. Anastasia had lost her temper a few times, that was something George could conclude by himself, and Monique didn’t have the guts to rearrange anything to fit her liking. The perfect tragedy.

Perhaps it was an issue of compatibility, that it would all fall apart in a few weeks when they noticed none of them fit together. There was nothing George could do if that was the case.

They were all actors, though, right? They could pretend things were fine and even convince themselves in the process.

George finally hummed in acknowledgement. Maybe this was the reason behind Rita’s genius.

“I’ll leave you to it, okay?” Rita snapped him out. “Don’t stress too much. You’re fine, trust me.”

George nodded, Rita taking his empty plate as a gesture of empathy. 

It was only the second day. He could arrange a few things and get used to it. He could work with his cast mates’ personalities, even if it cost him his own. Hollywood already did that to people, anyway.

So on his way out, he gave his goodbyes to everyone there, (to balance it out, he remembered). He grabbed his bag and left his feelings elsewhere.

It wasn’t long before George spotted the red (brown in his eyes, but he’d compromise) hooded Jaguar waiting for him. His roommate always made an effort to be early, and he appreciated it more than words could say.

He knocked, twice, on the window with a huff, noticing for the first time how his breath didn’t rise up in fogged clouds like it did in England.

There was a click, and George quickly slid down the passenger seat. He set his bag on his feet and leaned his head back on the leather.

“Tough day?” A voice perked from beside him.

“You wouldn’t guess.” 

He snickered, pressing down on the pedal. “Don’t tire yourself out, George. You know you don’t have to go.”

George let his mind wander as the car turned on increasingly familiar streets. “It’s all so unknown.”

“Unknown?”

“Yeah, like,” George held his breath. “I don’t know. You know Dream? The guy I told you about?”

The driver hummed.

“Today, he just left. After shooting, he just left. The last word he said was midst scene. And— and, Monique, you don’t know her, but she’s so much different while acting. It’s like she’s a whole other person.”

“Give them the benefit of the doubt. You haven’t been in their position yet.”

George exhaled, “I guess.”

“You’ll be alright, George.” He paused, the brunet scoffing in disbelief. “You will! Give it time.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Didn’t your contract give you leeway?”

“One month—,“

“And if you’re not, you can always go back.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> death


	6. | DEVILLED |

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I personally think there's more lie than truth to this world."

-

George,

I’m usually not a man of many words. I’ve been told, actually, that I’m more toward dry. Thoughtless. I carry days with me like the pattern were repeated for infinity.

Things like these, though, your letters— Waiting until midnight to write things I never expected to, tearing sheets out of my diary when it’s the only thing I hold sanctuary to, those speed my pulse when I’d forgotten the feeling.

I will get out. One day, I will.

Fifteen, by the way. Sixteen in August.

_—faraway_

-

_— An early morning venue (A faded Weeping Willow on its front)_

George hadn’t known how it happened. He didn’t know the depths of it, or how he’d managed to reach this moment, and yet, here he was, getting yelled at for the first time in years. But alas, this would only be the first time the brunet figures that Dream isn’t a morning person.

He’d been turning a corner, an absent mind reeling from the many times he’d stirred the previous night before finally falling to slumber. It was the second time he’d gotten coffee on set (just to wake himself up), and now was probably a good time he wished he’d indeed been one for creamer, because at the very least it’d lessen the damage.

The planets didn’t align for him that morning, no, because the moment his feet skipped the flooring, his forehead bumped right into someone’s chin. With it, came the straight black coffee and all of George’s will to live. 

“Holy—“ He didn’t get to hear the end of it as time around him halted. George barely saw it happening, cursed the person’s fashion sense for wearing a light colored shirt, and still wouldn’t understand.

His ears conveniently blocked the noise out for a few rolling seconds before everything came rushing back to him and he felt the sickening burn on his chest.

“Oh my god—˝ George panicked, backing away then panicking more at the fact that it was _definitely_ Dream staring down at him. Apparently that was enough to cancel out the near-boiling water burying down to his bones.

Dream held his breath, arching backward so what was left the liquid didn’t reach his chest, and then he scoffed. 

“You’re fucking kidding me.” He muttered, low.

“Are— I—“ George unwillingly stared at the very noticeable stain littering the entirety of Dream’s button-up, and he deeply wished for the blond to understand that it was an honest mistake.

Dream slowly turned his glare to George’s face. “Save it, move.”

He barely functioned before a louder tone made him flinch, “I’m not here for your shit, _move_.”

The hallway really didn’t allow much wiggle room, and George didn’t think his brain was even capable of telling his feet to move at the moment, so when a manicured hand clutched to Dream’s forearm with a soft tone to accompany it, least assured he was beyond relieved.

“Dream, drop it.”

Dream lingered his gaze on George for a few seconds following and then he turned, barely acknowledging Anastasia before he brushed her hand off and walked right back in his dressing room (shutting the door like an angry teenager, George noted).

The adrenaline dropped to where he actually felt the burning beneath his skin, and he regretfully wondered if it’d leave actual marks.

“Hey,” Anastasia’s soft eyes greeted him. “everything good?”

George would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t so pitiful. “Definitely awake now, I guess.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry about him, alright? It takes two to bump into each other.”

“Thanks,” George sighed, hissing when the shirt grazed his chest. “I should probably get changed.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” She patted his shoulder. “See you in a few minutes.”

George wondered if he’d make it.

-

So, that was how Dream’s first real impression of George went, or, if he were to be bold, George’s first impression of Dream. There wasn’t much he could do to change it; judging by the reddening skin he’d been left with, the taller wouldn’t be in a better state, either, specially since he got the worst of it.

And that’s where George’s dilemma fell; he _could_ feel bad and choose to forget about Dream’s overreaction, but ignoring the dangerous simmer of anger boiling within him at the words that were chosen was quite the hefty task. Probably not the best thing to think about.

Specially not, of course, when they’d both gotten excused from working that day and George had to wait a good few hours before he could get a ride home. Dream’s reasoning for staying was blurred in the Brit’s mind, but he’d do anything not to talk on it for the time being.

_Merciless, merciless, merciless_ , George’s mind chanted despite his better judgement. How, he wondered, how does one hold _so little_ empathy? Hell, if a trotting car were to run him over, he’s convinced Dream wouldn’t bat an eye. 

Sure, Anastasia was there to save the day, but what good does that do George when he couldn’t see good in her, either? It’s a competition, a battlefront, an endless array of open doors, each leading to an increasingly worse outcome and his mind is the martyr.

There’s no sympathy to spare for him, is there? There’s no welcoming cocktails and there aren’t heaps of wealth or lavished mansions, there are toxic relationships with those who dare and there are ugly, menacing glares with those who don’t.

_Would that be tunnel vision?_ He wonders on a black felted chair beside a blond who doesn’t care. And there’s no way of knowing, but perhaps it’s because George doesn’t want to torture himself.

There’s a beacon of time he doesn’t pay attention to, and George wonders if he should’ve. He looks at Dream, endlessly wondering if he does, for a change, but figures there’s no deceiving the stubborn. 

The clock ticks slowly, almost as if it were teasing him, and George curses back.

He’s once again reminded of the selfish, taunting occurrence that had gotten him here in the first place. He remembers chestnut stained shirts, weakness, he remembers the moment the agonizing weight of Dream’s presence had first begun to fall solely on him.

What good is his mind if it doesn’t provide pity? George thinks it’s hollow. Malice.

Dream doesn’t apologize, and George simply thinks it’s because he’s pessimistic, arrogant, _brutal_. His brain runs short on adjectives

Above him the sky has darkened and the actors on stage have performed something unworthy of comparison to his ever recurring conscience. Regretfully remembering Rita’s words, George settles, because there’s nothing he can do to alter his choices.

There’s chit-chat before they leave, and Sage asks him something he doesn’t remember before George is tossing his bag on his back and walking faster than usual to the flashing red Jaguar that isn’t so flashing under the moonlight. Of course, it’s not something George resents, because god forbid he’d have it any other way.

Vision is blurry and the only thing recognizable under the brunet’s perspective is the constant edging of amber streetlights, though the few turns he does acknowledge make him nauseous.

Out the window is a constantly changing population, and still he wonders how they could possibly keep up with time’s advance. As he hears, it’ll definitely get better as he goes.

George doesn’t speak on the ride home.

—

“Anastasia told me.”

And he huffs. “What? Why is this even important to you?”

“Because even if you’re clouded, you’re bound to learn how to be civil.” It’s stated bluntly, void of any emotion. A faded nordic accent suddenly surfaces, and Dream learns that’s what happens when Sage gets angry.

“I’m not some— some rabid _dog_ you put on a leash, Sage, I don’t need your guidance.”

“Fine, act like an adult instead of a contradicting teenager, then, maybe I’ll believe you.”

The spherical lights on the mirror flicker. Dream briefly glances at his flushed, withering reflection before his gaze lands dead in her darker green pupils. “You know I’m only here because I have to be, right?” He chuckled, eyes wide in rile, and Sage gives him a disappointed look. “If Sapnap hadn’t convinced— Forced me, actually, to sign this idiotic contract I wouldn’t take a _step_ near this city.”

“You and I both know your head isn’t clear to decide on anything substantial, Clay,” Sage’s expression remained nonchalant, and somehow it angered Dream further. “It hasn’t been for a long time, anyway.”

Dream wants to punch something, anything, but he bows his head. “You’re wrong.”

“How?” Her hands spin the wheels.

“I’m not _on_ anything, Sage.”

“You think you’re subtle, then?”

“Subtle?” Dream scoffs, and he’s looking back at her. Why he seems to tower over anyone but Sage, even when she’s down on a wheelchair, Dream isn’t sure. “There’s nothing to be subtle about.”

She hums, and it’s a lost case. “It’s strange, though, Dream, because I remember, right? And I’m sure your friend does, too, if he’s making you do something with your life.”

“That was three years ago.” Dream keeps his temper locked on a motive.

“Sixty-two?” She laughs. “It buries deeper than that, surely.”

And Dream sighs, like aligning his train of thought. “You haven’t been there my entire life, Sage.”

“No, but I have been there when you’ve taken a needle to your arm.” The world spins around him, a menacing stare cuts the air thick. 

“Fine.” His lips purse. “Take it, then.” Finally, surrender is marked when two glass jars of pale blue pills are thrown to Sage’s lap.

They’re raised to eye level, an uncharacteristic glimmer in her retinas holding reflection of a half empty bottle and of one harboring a tight seal. There are no words left to share, logically, but it wouldn’t be human if that was the end of it.

“That’s all?” Sage relies on Dream’s honesty, ever his worst front.

But alas, afloat emerges a determined “Yes.”

Sage nods closure, and so Dream helps her off his dressing room. So a brave front wrecks, shatters, when he’s truly left lonesome and freckled hands find their way to tug at increasingly thinning blond hair. It’s worse now, he realizes, when handfuls come easy.

Unlike George, the incident from earlier that day hadn’t crossed Dream’s mind. It burst in him for merely a moment, leaving without tracks and only when his chest saw the mirror hours later did reality surge within him for a rare one. But tracing his petrified eyes over the burn marks, Dream solely felt numb.

Back in a less than modest apartment deprived of a differing human soul, an urge reminded the blond to schedule an appointment with Plastics before the scalding heat left a scarring indent on his image, but he figured that’d do for next morning. No one would be present for him near this time of dawn, anyway.

Above silk sheets, he burned holes onto the ceiling. The open window blew weak, pointless air onto patterned floral curtains, and Dream wondered if Florida’s wind would’ve been more violent. If it wouldn’t have cared who it wounded.

Despite major effort, his eyelids wouldn’t bear closed. Every time they dared flutter, flashing lights would renew his wake and something would remind him of insignificant unfinished business. 

And though not drugged, Dream wonders if he can still feel the effects.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> death


End file.
